


Breather

by flowerdeluce



Category: Independence Day (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Missing Scene, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: “I’m sorry I left you for so long,” Brackish whispered, meeting Milton’s gaze in the mirror. “I hate to think of you being alone.” He wiped the wet trail on his cheek with his sleeve. “And getting so bored you take up knitting.” He laughed at that, hoping Milton wouldn’t take offense.“I wasn’t alone,” Milton said, turning Brackish to face him. “You were with me. You just, weren’t as talkative.”
Relationships: Milton Isaacs/Brackish Okun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Breather

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I thoroughly enjoyed seeing Brent Spiner's butt in _Resurgence_ , I wanted to write something that treated Brackish leaving his hospital bed a little more seriously. This ficlet is set between "Why didn't you tell me my butt was hanging out?" and the next time we see him, butt fully covered ;)

When Milton went to take his hand, Brackish snatched his whole arm away. They were in an access corridor between Sector 2 and the southwest common area, and despite the facility’s impressive technological advances over the last two decades, Brackish still recognised its layout. He also recognised the danger of someone seeing them holding hands. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Milton said calmly. “People know.”

Brackish stopped in his tracks. “People _know_? People as in everyone? How much do they know?” He only stopped with the questions because he was out of breath.

There’d been almost too much to take in since he’d woken from his coma: new technologies to absorb, all the history he’d slept through to learn, interference in his mind that took the form of shapes and symbols and inhuman voices he couldn’t translate (yet somehow seemed to understand.) And now yet another bombshell, more progress he’d missed summarised into simple facts.

“Most people know, and they know we’re together.” 

Steadying himself against the nearest wall, Brackish took long, deep breaths. It wasn’t shock. Those years were catching up with him, making his brain lag. The only reason he’d accepted Milton’s proposal to get properly dressed—and he’d never admit it to Dr. Worry Guts over here—was that he felt faint. After a five-minute breather, he was sure he’d think of a way to crack the giant eggshell dumped into Area 51’s lap. 

“It’s okay.” Milton rubbed Brackish’s shoulders, fingertips working at tired muscles. “It’s safe. Nobody minds anymore.”

“It’s not that,” Brackish said between carefully measured breaths. “I’d just . . . really like to get out of this damn gown.” 

*

Brackish stood slack-jawed in the doorway. Their quarters were sparse, almost empty besides Milton’s favourite armchair and Brackish’s faded watercolour of Groom Lake. The little touches that made the place feel like home were gone, replaced by holograms and digitised touch pads, white walls and tinted glass panels.

“It’s so different.” 

Milton led him through to the bedroom. A floor to ceiling screen illuminated the room with a sky-blue scene complete with moving clouds. It looked like animated wallpaper, or something out of a sci-fi movie. Overlaying the computer-generated sky was the time, date, and Nevada’s weather forecast glowing in white text. Further information modules rotated smoothly beneath the time in a carousel of boxes. Brackish studied one while Milton rifled through the wardrobe. It displayed rolling news reports, headlines changing every few seconds that would’ve been relevant back in ’96, though these mentioned the aliens _returning_. 

A looped few seconds of video footage flashed up inside one of the squares, crystal clear: an alien stalking towards the camera. It conjured a fragment of memory . . . a feeling (fear? determination?) . . . a voice in the back of his head (his own, distorted by another?) . . . something that happened to him moments before those twenty years vanished in the blink of an eye. 

“These okay?” Milton asked, holding up clothes. “They’re mine from a while back. Too small for me now.” 

“Yeah.” Brackish barely glanced at them. He slumped down onto the edge of the bed. 

The hopelessness he’d pushed to a dark corner of his mind was growing, clawing out into the harsh light of day. This century was unrecognisable. Apart from Milton, almost everything Brackish knew was gone. Or changed irreversibly.

“Brackish?” 

Brackish looked up and gasped when he found Milton looking down at him in concern, briefly mistaking him for a stranger towering over him. His persistent surprise at Milton’s appearance was infuriating. Why couldn’t he remember? He looked away, embarrassed. The moment he’d come round, all he’d had to say to him, the love of his life, was a comment on how much he’d gained weight (though in less kindly terms.)

“Sorry,” Brackish mumbled, staring at his lap. Even his own hands, resting on his thighs, looked old and out of time. A hospital bracelet for a stay he didn’t remember still circled his wrist.

Milton reached out and stroked his face. Briefly, Brackish was back in ’96, back when there were many years ahead for them both, the future an exciting prospect. He leaned into Milton’s palm and swallowed the impending dread that made it hard to breathe.

“Want me to help you get dressed?” Milton asked. 

Brackish nodded sombrely. 

When Milton slid the gown over Brackish’s shoulders, he barely registered its touch against his skin. Milton had told him numbness was a side effect of the coma when he’d panicked about his hands tingling. It wasn’t enough to worry about and would probably help ease the stiffness in his joints, but Brackish didn’t like it. 

“You remember anything yet?” Milton asked, sweeping Brackish’s hair over his shoulders so he could unfasten his fitted scarf.

“No. Don’t think I want to either.” 

The t-shirt Milton lent him was baggy but comfortable, the pants a little loose around the hips but wearable. They had the same shoe size, so it was no problem to borrow a pair of boots. Milton always complained about him ‘stealing’ his shoes, especially as he was inclined to forgo socks, though he didn’t seem to mind sharing on this occasion. 

“There’s no mirror in here anymore,” Brackish said to the blank wall where one used to hang. He wandered towards the bathroom until Milton stopped him in the doorway, a hand on his arm. 

“Are you sure you want to look?” 

Brackish half-smiled. “I can’t look that bad, can I?” 

He’d look older. He knew that. Heavier around the eyes probably, but it wasn’t healthy to pretend he was still in his forties. The sooner he confronted it, the better. Milton gave him some privacy to do so.

Staring at his reflection, Brackish waited for it to sink in. The medicine cabinet’s mirror didn’t pull its punches. The light above it was cold and unflattering, illuminating every new wrinkle in his skin in sharp relief. He didn’t mind the lines so much, but he recoiled when he noticed the marks around his throat. 

White edged his vision, dizziness overwhelming him in a great wave. Pain surged through his head, voices cramming in like they’d smashed their way through his skull. Panting, he gripped the sink’s edge and screwed his eyes shut. 

He recognised this pain. The last time he felt it, he’d been in the theatre. The memory was—

Milton’s arm braced his middle. “I got you.”

“What is this?” Brackish asked, a tear rolling down his cheek as the pain subsided. He touched his neck, surprised that it didn’t hurt.

“It’s where the alien connected with you. Just bruising, baby.” 

“Bruising?” Brackish scoffed. He leant over the sink to get a closer look at the ugly markings. “Bruises fade.”

“Something like bruising. We never got to the bottom of it.” He brought the scarf up around Brackish’s neck. “Here.” 

The soft wool sat snug against his neck, hiding the marks once the button was fastened. Milton’s reflection looked pleased with how it covered the evidence of the attack. Milton’s reflection looked . . . comforting.

“I’m sorry I left you for so long,” Brackish whispered, meeting Milton’s gaze in the mirror. “I hate to think of you being alone.” He wiped the wet trail on his cheek with his sleeve. “And getting so bored you take up knitting.” He laughed at that, hoping Milton wouldn’t take offense. 

“I wasn’t alone,” Milton said, turning Brackish to face him. “You were with me. You just, weren’t as talkative.” He smiled, and Brackish’s heart ached; he looked like the Milton he remembered. His warm grin shone from behind his glasses and thick, full beard. It felt like home. 

“But it breaks my heart.” He pressed his face into Milton’s chest and felt two warm arms wrap around his shoulders and hold tight. “It’s not fair.” He wept quietly into the embrace, into a lab coat that smelled calming and familiar. “I wanted to grow old with you.” 

“Shh, baby, you will.” Milton combed gentle fingers through Brackish’s hair. “We’ve plenty of time for that.” 

Milton was holding something back. Brackish could feel it. Of course there’d be things he’d want to share with him about how he’d coped, what he’d done with all those years. But now wasn’t the time. Brackish needed to remember that. There was more at stake here than the unfair hand fate had dealt them. The facility was in danger. The planet too. Humanity itself needed their help.

“Let’s get back out there and crack that thing open,” Brackish said, wiping his eyes and stepping back, gathering his strength. He could do with the distraction of having a puzzle to solve.

Milton gave him what Brackish used to call his Doctor Look. “You should rest, baby.” 

“I’ve rested for twenty years!” He hurried to the door, already formulating a plan that involved a certain infamous and experimental laser that had once gotten him into a whole heap of trouble.

“Please promise me you’ll take it easy Brackish,” Milton begged, following him. 

“I promise I’ll try.”


End file.
